“I was wondering where the towels were,” she muses, snuggling into the terrycloth.
“I really do need to give you a proper tour,” I confess. I’ve neglected my domestic duties.
“I bounced around a little this afternoon,” she says, taking a step. She falters, stumbling slightly.
“What’s wrong?” I panic. I never panic.
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “I’m fine. I’m always a little tired and loopy after we have sex. You’re not a small man, Griffin. You really go for it.” She laughs sweetly.
Bless her well-fucked little self. But she’s also pregnant, and I want to make sure she stays safe.
“Come here. Hold my hand, just in case.”
I offer my hand. She gives me a perplexed smile but takes it.
“I’m really okay.”
“I know. I just like touching you.”
The moon casts light on her beautiful face. I give her a smile, just to let her know she pleases me. There is something unspoken in her expression. Something that looks terrifyingly like love.
I hold her hand as we walk down the stairs to the master suite.
“Do you want to wash the chlorine off?” I ask as we enter the room. “You'll feel crusty if you don't.”
“I certainly do not want to be crusty,” she says. Then, her face goes pale.
“Sorry.” She rushes into the bathroom and kicks the door half-shut as she dives for the toilet.
I catch the door before it closes. She is retching violently into the bowl. I immediately pull her hair back from her face.
“I’m sorry,” she chokes out between heaves.
I rub her back while she throws up nothing but bile. She doesn’t have much in her stomach, just our lunch.
“Did you get this sick before you met me?” Perhaps she has a condition she hasn’t shared.
“Sometimes. I’ve always had a sensitive stomach.” She looks panicked, her face beet-red. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.”
“You’re pregnant, love. I’m going to see much worse,” I tell her, wondering why she’s so shy about it.
“But it’s disgusting.” She looks at the floor.
“It’s your body. Nothing about you is disgusting. Trust me. Do you still feel sick?”
I continue to rub her back. “This may be hormones, it could be nerves, or that baby is more like his father than his mom.” I kiss her cheek. She looks as white as a ghost. “Let’s get you cleaned up and in bed.”
I help her to the sink to brush her teeth, then turn on the hot water in the shower. I hold her up while I wash every inch of her body.
I can do this—take care of her physically. Emotionally? I'm not so sure. But let me do what I'm able.
“Okay.” She touches my cheek. There’s that loving look again.
I finish washing her and carry her to bed. She lies against my chest, and I brush her damp hair with my fingers. Her eyes droop, and soon she falls asleep.
As soon as I know she's out, I slip out of bed and call Beckett.
“Do you know what the fuck time it is?” he answers, spitting fire.
